


Hearts, Chains, and Tinsel

by Cat_Latin



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:58:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Latin/pseuds/Cat_Latin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  “We’re being sent to clean up after Islington.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts, Chains, and Tinsel

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Good Omens Holiday Fic Exchange.

Crowley loathed Christmas.  Being a demon, this was perfectly normal.

There was slush on the ground, and a thin film of dirt on the yuletide decorations that had been a pox on the city since All Saints.  Crowley drove, too fast, and under a firm cloud of gloom.

It didn’t matter that the Bentley now had a plug-in for Crowley’s i-Pod.  The joyful strains of Mozart, which weren't helping anyway, soon gave way to “Fat Bottomed Girls,” which assisted his mood even less.

Then the music stopped, and Freddie Mercury announced that Crowley had an assignment.

The demon had it on good authority that Freddie hadn’t ended up in hell, thank the darkness.  Crowley hated the band Queen with a single-minded passion, and hoped they'd all be consigned to what lies beyond the pearly gates.  Still, it was better than Christmas carols.  Crowley snorted.  If the angel were here, he’d praise him for his optimism.

“Oh, and Crowley,” the Freddie-voice added, “Another agent will be sent to accompany you.  Over and out.” 

We will, we will rock you!

Bollocks.  Hopefully it wasn’t someone he’d pissed off, but that would narrow the possibilities down significantly.

Crowley's superiors were sending him to London Below.  He hadn't visited in centuries.  Perhaps he’d make a pit stop at the Floating Market.  He went back to his flat to gather a few items for barter.

He'd been told there was a book he’d need, from an exclusive collection. He’d have to break into the angel’s bookstore to retrieve it.  The demon sighed.   Aziraphale had gone discorporate again in a freak accident at St. James Park.  That’s what he got for feeding ducks.  It was only a matter of time until his superiors saw fit to return him; no one else from that quarter would touch the earthbound assignment with a fifty-foot divining rod. 

Without the angel, his mortal enemy and best friend, London’s damp trudge toward the Christmas holidays seemed bleaker than usual.

Crowley was at his flat when someone rapped on his door.  The other agent, Crowley surmised, and braced himself for unpleasantness.

It was Aziraphale, in all of his solid, buttoned-down glory.  He held a plant, hastily hung with tinsel, with a large red bow tied around the pot.  “Thought you’d like it,” the angel said.  “Madagascar Dragon trees are hard to kill.”

The demon accepted the plant gently, and placed it on a table by the door.  “I think I’m up for the challenge.”

There was mistletoe hanging over Crowley’s hallway door.  The angel probably thought it was up there to show willing, holiday spirit or what not, but it was actually there as a warning to the rest of his plants.

Aziraphale eyed it, and reached over to Crowley.  He pulled the demon’s sunglasses off,  and slid a hand around the back of his neck, drawing him in for a surprisingly long, and not-too-chaste kiss.

“Pagan custom, I know,” the angel muttered, returning Crowley’s sunglasses.

Warmth flared in the demon’s dark heart.  “I missed you too,” he said.

To Crowley’s amazement, Aziraphale was the agent sent to accompany him.  “They told me nothing,” the angel admitted, “save that it’s something that falls under both our jurisdictions.”

This made sense.  So Crowley told him.  “We’re being sent to clean up after Islington.”

“Bugger,” the angel said.

They retrieved the book from the angel’s shop.  Aziraphale carefully locked the door, and Crowley led him around to the back, where the demon tapped out a complex rhythm on an old sewer grating.  The iron bars slid aside, and suddenly there appeared a clattering early escalator, its wooden slats progressing serpentine and distinctly downwards, into impenetrable darkness.  Aziraphale shuddered.

“Don’t worry,” the demon said cheerfully.  “Most of the dirty work’s been done for us.  Ever been to London Below?”

“No.  Not my jurisdiction.  The magic there comes from…someplace else.”  The demon grunted and nodded agreement.  The Cities Below were neutral territory, providing an interesting and logical place to keep a fallen angel under house arrest.

Being who they were, they came to the angel Islington’s prison without confrontation.  In fact, they hadn’t encountered a soul on their journey.  Word gets around.

“The rear entrance will only open to your touch,” the demon said to the angel.  Then, realizing how that sounded, he snickered, and added, “so be gentle.”  Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and placed his hand on the wall.  It disappeared.

The place was empty of life.  The main hall featured imposing iron pillars, forming a circle.  Some of the pillars were hung with chains.  There was a pool of water gone stagnant, and a rather large and imposing iron door.  Furniture and debris were scattered around. 

“Huh,” the demon said. “So this is Divine prison architecture.  Pretty posh, for destroying an entire civilization.”  He kicked at an overturned chair.  “Got to hand it to you, angel.  When your kind goes mad, they don‘t skimp.”

“Tragic,” the angel whispered.  “All of those innocent souls.”  The demon knew Aziraphale spoke of Atlantis. 

“They had…good wine,”  Crowley offered lamely. 

The angel ignored him, and cast a bleak look at the iron door.  “And all of that potential…lost.” 

And the demon understood his companion spoke of his own kind, his…brother. 

Crowley coughed, and clapped the angel on the back.  “Come on then.  To work.”

The angel shook himself, and wiped a hand across his face.  “Indeed.  Let’s get out of here, sooner rather than later. Part of what makes this place a prison is that we’re practically powerless here.”

“That’s what we’re here to fix,” Crowley said.  “A little rite to make this place the same as all that surrounds it.” He coughed again, nervously.  “But, er, we won’t be leaving.  At least not on these feet.  Today, anyway.”

The angel‘s face fell. “Oh.”

They cleared the detritus as best as they could from within the circle, the angel muttering about having just got back, only to be wiped out again within the hour.  Aziraphale opened the book they brought, and Crowley produced a piece of chalk. 

The result of their work was a complex, geometric mandala, which seemed to simultaneously spread and collapse in on itself.  It was multidimensional, and rose a little from the floor.  It glowed blue, and thrummed with energy. 

The angel and the demon admired their handiwork, and as one, they unfolded their wings.  “It requires a sacrifice,” Crowley said.  “That would be us, both of us, for the circumstance, and boundaries this strong.”

“Understood.” The angel offered him a small smile.  “At least you won’t be mooning about London, pining for me this time,”

The demon took his hand. “See you later.”

They were about to step into the mandala, when they heard voices. 

Later, Crowley could never explain why they chose to hide, rather than confront the pair of mortals, loudly whispering and making their way into the main hall like stealthy rhinoceri.   The angel threw his coat over the mandala.  It stretched, and took the form of a cast-off curtain.  The demon pulled him back, behind an overturned table.  The pair folded their wings, and watched and listened.

“--not a long-time resident like you, but surely we could find a safer spot!  Are you sure you‘re not just looking to loot the place?”

The owner of the voice was a young man, a little tousled and nice looking in a quiet way.  He sounded vaguely Scottish, and could have been a clerk, or a college student from Above.  He carried a fresh scent of this place about him, and something else.  He did not look happy to be here, and was wandering too close to the mandala for Crowley’s comfort.

The young man’s companion appeared, and Crowley cursed under his breath.  The height and swagger of the man, his leather greatcoat and midnight skin...it had been a very long time, but this was unmistakably the marquis De Carabas.  Crowley owed the bastard a favor.  He looked at Aziraphale and put a finger over his lips.

“Islington’s gone to the other side of time and space.  The only folk who would come here are the Black Friars, and I‘d know about it if they did.” De Carabas seemed distracted as he spoke.  He was looking for something.  He ran his fingers down the side of an iron pillar and something went “click.”

“Aha!”

An invisible panel slid aside in the pillar.  Crowley couldn’t understand De Carabas delight; he could see that the hiding spot was empty from where he hid.  The marquis called his companion over: “Richard.  Come see for yourself.”

Richard wandered over and whistled.  “I guess Christmas wishes do come true.  Even down here.”  The pair shared a smile, and De Carabas pulled something from his greatcoat.  It was a box, about the size of a loaf of bread.  Richard placed his hand on it for a moment before De Carabas transferred it to the compartment in the pillar.  The panel slid shut.

“Safe,” Richard said, but it seemed more a question. 

“No place safer,” De Carabas replied.  “The curse which held the angel here makes it very difficult for any of the residents to work their mischief.  And fear keeps the rest of them away.”  He stalked toward Richard with a wicked smile, and added, “And in the company of Sir Richard of Maybury--”

“Mayhew,” the young man corrected automatically.  He stood a little straighter at the marquis’ approach, alert and ready, but his eyes twinkled, and a flush grew on his cheeks.  He took a few steps backward, keeping his eyes locked on De Carabas.  It appeared not so much a retreat as a lure.

“--Mayhew, beg your pardon, explorer and Warrior, who has the freedom of London Below and the undying gratitude of all.  In your company, sir, I for one, could not be safer.”

“And that’s the only reason you came back for me?”  Richard’s back hit a pillar.

“Hardly,” De Carabas purred, pinning Richard to the pillar with his body and kissing him almost violently.  The young man gave as good as he got, growling as he tangled his fingers in De Carabas hair, and bit at his mouth.

Mmm, yes.  Crowley suddenly realized how close he was to Aziraphale, and how hot his breath must be on the angel’s neck.  The angel hadn’t moved away, in fact had crouched almost frozen to his spot.

Chains hung from the pillar the mortals had chosen.  De Carabas lifted one and ran its length across Richard’s cheek, who groaned and squirmed impatiently.  “The tools of our prior captivity, Sir Richard.  Care to reclaim them?”

“Get the fuck on with it,” Richard grated out, pushing his hips against any part of De Carabas he could reach.  It was fast and filthy, and the best live show the demon had seen in a while.  The marquis wrapped Richard’s hands in the chains, and pulled away their clothing between kisses and bites to the skin that Crowley could almost feel.  Richard’s legs came up around De Carabas waist, and De Carabas held onto him with one strong arm, while he teased and opened Richard’s body with spit and fingers.

Aziraphale shifted but didn’t move away.  “They’re too close to the mandala,” he hissed in Crowley’s ear.

“They’re not in any danger,” Crowley whispered back.  He did not want to reveal himself to De Carabas, didn’t want to give that wanker the satisfaction.  His arms came up around the angel, holding him close.

Richard gave a shout as De Carabas pushed into him ruthlessly.  He held onto the chains, the pillar supporting his back, his legs neatly folded around De Carabas, who cradled his hips and ass in his huge hands, and fucked into him with long, hard strokes.  Such a beautiful picture.  Crowley remembered an ancient Greek vase that once adorned his house, depicting a kouros and his mentor, engaging in acts of love.  And the sounds, the gorgeous sounds of men fucking: animal grunts, and warm, wet slaps.  The angel trembled in his arms.

Then Richard let go of the chains, De Carabas stumbled backwards, and the two fell on top of the mandala, twisting and groaning, still locked together.  The cloth was pushed aside, and the glow encompassed them, becoming a white-hot sphere.

Aziraphale’s body jerked, but Crowley held him fast. “We can’t help them,” he said.  
The angel relented, and melted against him.  “We can,” he murmured.  “When it’s over.”  
Crowley opened his mouth to ask why, but that’s when the screaming began from within the sphere.  It wasn’t pretty.  Crowley spared Aziraphale the sight by pushing him face down to the floor.  He rutted against the angel’s perfect upturned ass as he watched the mortals die.

Aziraphale sighed, and his clothing disappeared.  His body opened to Crowley effortlessly, and they came together like that, on the hard stone floor of the angel Islington’s prison.

Then all was quiet.  Aziraphale turned in Crowley’s arms and kissed him for a long time.  They helped each other to their feet; clothing was restored.

The mandala was gone.  On the floor, there was a mess of blood, muscle and bone, that had once been the mortals.

“I think they’re beyond our help now,” the demon said carefully, but the angel smiled.

“Could it be that I know something about this place that you do not?”  Aziraphale went to the pillar with the hiding spot, and opened the panel.  He pulled out the box that the mortals had so carefully hidden, and placed it on the carnage that was once Sir Richard of Mayhew and the marquis De Carabas.  “Come here,” he said.

Angel and demon knelt on the floor, side by side.  Aziraphale opened the box.

They could have been two ruby eggs, nestled together and shining in the dim light.  They could have been a pair of beating hearts.  Whatever they were, they were alive.

“Clever mortals.  Clever angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale beamed. He locked eyes with the demon and held up a finger.  Crowley did the same.  They took each other’s fingers in their mouths, never breaking eye contact, taking their time with the task.  Then, as one, they placed their moistened fingers on the items in the box.  
There was an implosion that Crowley felt to his toes, and a wind that tossed things about for quite some time.  The angel pulled him back, away from the bodies.

Then Richard and De Carabas were whole again, coughing and heaving and naked on the cold stone floor. 

“Bloody hell,“ Richard wheezed.  He jabbed De Carabas, who winced. “And you do this often?”  They began to struggle to their feet.

“Indeed.” De Carabas looked Richard up and down, then ran his hands over his own perfectly healed flesh.  “But never so...miraculously.”

When the marquis spotted Crowley, he began to laugh.  He did not seem at all surprised.

“Hello, demon,” he said.  “I suppose all debts are repaid?”

“Looks like that,” Crowley replied with some relief.

“You’d better find a better hiding place for your box,” the angel said.  “The curse has been lifted.  This place could be anyone’s now.”

“Anyone’s?” Richard asked with interest.  He was sliding into his clothes, and had stopped to hand De Carabas his greatcoat.  “As a matter of fact, we’ve been looking around for accommodations.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to settle down,” De Carabas said scornfully.

“Think of it as a headquarters, or a---a secret lair,” Richard offered.

“Hmmm.  In that case, the place could use some curtains.”

And the four of them toasted the housewarming, and the holiday season with the last dusty bottle of Atlantean wine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
